


The Child With Bloody Feet

by icarus_chained



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Mythology - Freeform, Origins, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos is the name for a myth. Well then. A small myth of origins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Child With Bloody Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat experimental, this one.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

The child did not look like a child. He looked old, adult. He had the face and form of a man, long and lean and dark, though he did not remember how, or why, or what he'd been before. He did not look like a child. But he was. Heart and mind. He was so very young, then. He was always young. He always would be.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

The feet never stopped bleeding. He couldn't remember when they had s _tarted_. He'd been walking for as long as he could remember, living as long as he could remember. One foot, two foot, one, two, one, two, left, right, one, two. One two. Never stopping. His feet bled. But they never broke. When they cut, they healed. One, two. Black, blue. And red and white and splintered too. But he didn't notice. He had bloody feet. He'd always had bloody feet. It was the way it was.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

He left bloody footprints, when he walked. Over rock and sand and wood and water. Over snow. Over earth. He walked all the earth, and for every beat of his foot upon the soil, he left a drop of blood. A blood that welled with life and death. A blood that sparked in silent ferocity. A blood that cried out for more blood. Every beat of his foot, he sowed that seed. Everywhere he walked, he left that mark. And he never stopped walking, never stopped living.

He didn't know how.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

For the longest time, he walked in quiet places. For the longest time, he walked with no knowledge of himself, and no need for knowledge. He was all there was. He was complete. While he walked in the silence, the silence was all he knew, and all he needed to know.

And then, one day, he walked out of the wilderness. One day, he walked out where the people were.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

They called him 'demon'. He didn't understand. The word had no meaning. Red-foot, The Wanderer. He Who Walks. So many names. He'd never had a name, before, in the same way his feet had never not bled. He'd never known he needed one. But people ... they had names. To be a person, you had to have a name, in this world of noise and knowledge. He could see that. He could _want_ that. He could want a name.

But these words, these names ... they touched nothing. Held nothing. Meaningless. He discarded them. All of them, all the cries thrown at him in the night, all the whispers in the daylight. They didn't mean anything.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

He wanted a name. He knew then that he wanted one. And only people had names. Only people could give names. So he walked now where the people were. He sought them out. He walked and walked, over all the earth, through all the tribes that lived then, in search of a name.

And through them all, in his wake, he left his bloody footprints. Through them all, he sowed the lightning.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet.

One day, the child met another child. One day, he met another who bled and bled and never stopped. Another who lived and lived and never died. A child of madness, a child of pain, who cried out against him, against the beat of blood that never stopped, against the lightning that never died. A child who ran to him in pain, and struck against him. A child who stopped, who stopped and did not start again, when he struck back in panic. A child who died at his feet, and fed the lightning. One day, the child with bloody feet met another child, and that child died.

And when it was done, when the lightning crawled sullenly home, when pain and panic died, the child laid his foot in the other's prints, and saw they were his own. He rested his blood against the other's, and saw they were the same. He touched the sparking seed the other had sown with his own, and saw that his was older.

He touched the body of the child, and saw that they'd been his. In that moment ... he changed. In that moment, he was born. No more a child, but a man.

Once upon a time, there was a man with bloody feet.

He found other children, after that. Children of the lightning, children of the blood. They came to him, followed him. They did not come from the wilderness, as he had come. They came from where the people were, came from the tribes of the earth. They followed his footsteps. His blood was their blood. He was the first, the oldest. They walked where he had walked, and further still, being more, being free. And where they walked, with bloodied feet, another seed was sown. And where they walked, ahead of them, he ran.

Once upon a time, there was a man with bloody feet.

Once upon a time, those feet never stopped bleeding, not now because he walked, but because now he had to run. Had to run, and never stop. He couldn't stop. He ran to live. He bled to live. When angry children born in pain came for him, he ran. When mortals cried out against his false names, he ran. He ran ahead, with opened feet, and wherever he ran they followed, along the path of bloody footprints.

And still he had no name. And still he wanted one. And until he had one, he could not stay away. No matter how much it hurt him. No matter how many times they came for him. He could not leave, could not stop walking, until he found his name.

Once upon a time, there was a man with bloody feet.

And then one day, he met another child. A child who did not strike. A child who saw his pain as well as their own. A child who looked at him with scarred, laughing eyes, and liked what they saw. A child who understood time, who saw it inside him, who moved to defend it. A child who saw what he yearned for, what he needed, a child who took him as a brother. A child name Kronos. A child ... who gave him a name.

A name. A name for what he was, for who he was. A name for blood that never stopped flowing, for lightning that never stopped leaping, for life that never stopped walking. A name for seeds sown across lands, for children born in pain. A name for the first, for the oldest. A name for the child with bloody feet.

A name ... for a myth.

Once upon a time, there was a child with bloody feet, who bled because he walked. That child became a man with another's death.

Once upon a time, there was a man with bloody feet, who bled because he ran. That man became a myth with the giving of a name. That man became Methos.

And Methos? Learned to _ride_.


End file.
